Bloodied Claws
by DwemerSteelBlade
Summary: Silverclaw, a young Khajiit warrior, was new in Skyrim when he was lunged into an epic journey including potions, swordfights, monsters, and dragons. With his trusted partners, he will conquer the secrets that Skyrim seemed to hold so dearly, and become a force to be reckoned with.
1. Chapter I

**AN: I don't like the way that Khajiits are portrayed in the games, as weakened furries that like to steal. That's why this fic will have an overhauled version of the race. Basically, Khajiits now look younger and males don't have their cheeks drooped. And their names will be a bit changed.**

 **Silverclaw/Dro'aptu**

 **?**

The young Khajiit groaned inwardly. He had just woken up from being knocked unconscious. He tried to bring his paw to his head, but something kept his limb from moving. He cracked open his eyes, hissing at the bright light. He fought through the pain and look downwards. His paws were held together with a strengthened leather strap, which even he couldn't cut through.

It chafed against the skin underneath his grey fur. He tried twisting his hands, in vain. It couldn't be broken, just as he had suspected. "Oh, you're awake," said a male voice. He looked up, still squinting slightly due to the large amount of light. "No-o-o-o… what gave it away?" he replied sardonically, masking his discomfort. The man came into focus.

The man, obviously a Nord, had long blonde hair, some of it fashioned into elegant braids. The man had a strong jawline and nose, with piercing blue eyes. He had a short beard starting to grow, the color matching his hair. He was wearing a sort of mix between blue fabric, metal, and chainmail with fur boots. He seemed unamused with the youth's attempt at humor.

Silverclaw then became aware of whimpering to the man's side. His ears twitched as he looked beside the Nord and saw what he believed was a Breton. It was a male Breton, and he was looking around as if he were expecting an ambush there and then. "We shouldn't be here," he kept mumbling to himself, desperately trying to break the leather binds that had been put on his forearms.

"Quiet back there!" Silverclaw heard a voice holler. He turned to his right, his fur bristling with annoyance. He noticed that he was in a cart being pulled by a horse. An Imperial was leading the horse down a forest path. If Silverclaw hadn't been so caught up in the fact that he was being kitnapped, he would've surely thought that the forest they were passing through was beyond beautiful.

Now that his eyes had fully adjusted to the light, he could see that it was late in the day. The sky was starting to turn red in the west, glazing everything with a reddish hue. The last rays of sunlight glimmered through the trees, ending in dappled god rays that gave everything an ethereal glow. Stars were starting to show up in the east, making it even more appealing. A soft breeze blew through the path, ruffling the leaves on the trees and shrubbery along with Silverclaw's pelt. The breeze was scented with flowers and herbs, calming the young Khajiit.

Silverclaw toned his voice down to barely a whisper and leaned into the Nord. "If we jumped off here, we could run into the forest, break off our binds, and escape," he whispered. The Nord looked bemused and nodded. Silverclaw wasn't sure whether he could trust the people in the cart, but something instead told him he could. Maybe it was their scent of an honest life or just his gut telling him the way.

Suddenly, before they could put their plan into action, they rolled up at the gate to a town and went on through. "Well, that plan's dead," grumbled the youth, flicking his tail in annoyance. The Nord nodded grimly in agreement, making a slight attempt to break the binds, as if they were so brittle a simple flexing would shatter them. The town seemed to be a standard Imperial outpost, the houses all generic Nordic designs.

On the porch of one, a family of three sat. There was one boy, and the mother and father flanked him. "Dear, would you be so kind to go inside?" she asked nervously. "Aw-w-w-w… I want to watch the soldiers, though!" the child protested indignantly. This reminded Silverclaw of when he was merely but a kit. He had been a bit of a troublemaker as a youngster and rarely, if ever, followed the rules.

"Listen to your mother," the father said sternly. The young child made a face and went back into the house. He saw the two parents sigh. A crowd started forming around them, probably for some event.

Silverclaw returned his attention to his new-found acquaintances in the cart, realizing they had stopped. Elves on horses rode into the center of town that they were in, some wearing elegantly carved robes while others wore gilded armor. "Damn elves," the Nord cursed, "I bet the Thalmor's got something to do with this."

Silverclaw cocked his head in curiosity, but decided now was not the time. "Out!" shouted a gruff female voice. He turned his head and saw a female Imperial officer, wearing shining silver armor. "Well, this is the first time a lady has ever wanted me dead," he attempted a joke yet again. This time, the blonde Nord chuckled heartily. "You are a brave warrior, to make jokes when we are most likely facing our ends," smiled the Nord solemnly, standing up.

The Khajiit youth followed suit, growing to his full height behind the Nord. The man stepped forward and jumped off the cart, following the cowardly Breton. Silverclaw did the same as the Nord, portraying no fear or nervousness in his demeanor.

 _Might as well have one final cleaning._

He was currently wearing rags, his armor damaged heavily by a fight he had had prior. He then started licking his exposed arms, much to the crowd's shock. He actually wanted to laugh at some of the faces he saw out of the corner of his eye. He could tell that the Imperial office had recoiled in disgust.

He had no idea why they were acting this way. Khajiits usually groomed each other and bathed outside, due to their cat-like tendencies. He guessed that other races didn't share the same traditions.

He didn't really care, though. He was going to die, so the reactions of onlookers couldn't matter less to him. "Keep doing that. I will try to escape my bindings as you distract the crowd," whispered the Nord. It was to a point that a human wouldn't have heard it, but Silverclaw was a Khajiit, meaning he had the hearing of a feline.

His ear twitched in response. He moved from his left arm to his right, continuing to wash himself. He could hear the faint sound of the Nord grunting. He was trying to break through the bindings. "Try sliding out of them," whispered Silverclaw, not stopping from his washing. He saw the small face of reluctance the Nord had made, but he obliged and now started to try sliding his right hand out.

 _Guess Nords are more of a brute-force loving race._

He finished with his arms and sat down, stretching out his exposed digitigrade legs and starting to lick them clean.

Suddenly, he heard a small _**ziiiiiiiip**_ as the Nord beside him loosened the bindings and slipped his hand out. "A prisoner is loose! Capture him!" shouted the Imperial captain. "Now would be a good time to run!" shouted Silver claw. The Nord man was one step ahead of him and sprinted off towards a guard tower. Silverclaw and the cowardly Breton followed suit, running as fast as their legs could carry them. Of course, this meant the Breton was the last one in, since Khajiit could run fairly faster than any of the other races.

Once all three were in, the Nord slammed the door shut and barricaded it with a weapon rack that had probably weighed over a hundred pounds. "We need to out of these bindings," said the Breton, all traces of cowardice disappearing from him. "Your powers of perceptiveness never cease to amaze me," said Silverclaw sardonically. "Aye. Why don't you use your teeth to free yourself?" asked the Nord.

"The bindings are too thick. I'll end up breaking a tooth," responded Silverclaw. The Nord gave a quick nod and took a dagger from the weapon's rack. The second he took it, the door shuddered, keeping their would-be attackers at bay. The Nord, adrenaline now running through his veins, quickly sliced off the Khajiit's and Breton's bindings.

The Breton quickly grabbed a battle axe from the rack and readied himself for battle. "I thought you were a coward," purred Silverclaw, grateful for being freed from the accursed torture bindings. "Just an act. Much easier to fight Imperials when they think you are nothing but a fretful weakling," grinned the Breton. His explanation made sense to Silverclaw. "We don't have any armor, meaning we won't last long in a fight. We need to escape," said the Nord, sliding his dagger into a sheathe he had on his armor. "Agreed. We could go up to the top of the tower and jump onto the trees," suggested Silverclaw. While he was no coward and his cat-like reflexes would give him an edge, he still saw reason.

The Breton still seemed to be itching for a fight, but reluctantly obliged, dropping the weapon. The door shuddered thrice, each time seemingly about to give in. The Nord quickly dropped a couple more pieces of weaponry and furniture to barricade the door, and then took off up the stairs with the young Khajiit and deceiving Breton in tow.

They raced up three flights until the reached the 'crow's nest' as Silverclaw liked to call it. Thankfully, the Khajiit's plan held up as there were trees taller than the tower and within jumping distance. Unfortunately, they were three stories up. If they fell or failed the jump, it would mean a plummet to certain death.

Silverclaw wasn't intimidated, though, as he had done things similar to this in his youth. And he was the descendent of cats, after all, so he had an innate sense of balance. Suddenly, the door thumped four times. It was so loud they could still hear it clearly from the third story. "Let's go!" shouted Silverclaw as he gestured for the Nord to jump. The Nord visibly scrunched his face up, but got onto the edge of the top anyways. He then leaped.

For a second, time seemed to freeze for Silverclaw. He could see the Nord's expression of pure terror as he floated slowly towards the tree. The second he slammed straight into the tree and grabbed a secure handhold, time resumed normally. The Breton, thankfully, truly seemed to be fearless and jumped without even making a face. He quickly slid down the tree, the Nord shimmying cautiously down.

Abruptly, the sound of a door snapping and falling to the ground reached his ears. "Crap," he muttered. He then ran up to the side and leapt, his powerful digitigrade legs providing him with more than enough speed. He nimbly swung around the tree thrice, using his claws to anchor himself to the bark, and stopped on a thin branch. A sudden creak got his attention. The branch suddenly snapped and left him falling. He could see below that the Nord and Breton were trying to judge his trajectory to catch him, but the endangered mammal had a different plan.

Time seemed to slow as he started. He had just dropped from the third story. He front-flipped and now faced the tree while freefalling. He stuck out his paws and prayed to the almighty Divines that it would work. Thankfully, the Divines seemed to on his side today as his claws caught on the bark and stopped him before he hit the ground. He sighed a breath of relief and looked down. He was about a couple feet from the ground.

He could easily handle the drop, and he did, his hind paws landing on the ground without making a sound. The Nord nodded approvingly while the Breton grinned. "Nice work there. We better be off," grunted the Nord. They all agreed and started running, but were frozen when a shape manifested on the darkened horizon.

"Wait… is that a… dragon?" asked the Nord, squinting. The thought sent chills down Silverclaw's spine. It suddenly flew upwards and flapped into full view. To the small group's dismay, it was a dragon. A big one.


	2. Chapter II

**AN: Ello, mates! Well, got more of this for ya! :P**

 **Oh, and by the way, if you don't like this story, don't read it. That simple. There have been a couple of people who have PMed me with petty insults and saying Khajiits are a horrible race, so I won't say names (**cough cough** haters **cough cough**), but please. If you're going to insult me, at least think up something that doesn't basically amount to 'You're stupid and Khajiits suck.'**

 **Silverclaw**

 **Helgen, Skyrim**

It was mayhem. The dragon had a bony exterior, beige armor plating covering almost every inch of its lean, muscular body. Its length was longer than two of the homes in the town, it's wings as long as one. The dragon had evil, menacing red eyes that seemed to pierce the physical being and look into your soul.

"This must be a dream," the Nord said weakly, his breath taken from him and into the night sky. Silverclaw cuffed him in the ear playfully. "Did that hurt?" he asked, his tone indicating he already knew the answer as the Nord put a hand up to his ear and let out an annoyed grunt. "There. Not dreaming, as you can _feel_ ," finished the Khajiit, trying to mask the terror he was feeling at the prospect of a dragon.

"We've got to help them!" exclaimed the Breton. "I'm not sure how insane you are, but those Imperials were probably going to behead us," grunted Silverclaw. "Not the Imperial bastards! The innocents!" responded the Nord as if the Khajiit was deaf. "Fine… but only you two are going and I don't want you to die," Silverclaw pouted.

"First we need to enter," said the Breton. "Then follow me," replied the Nord, then bounded off. "Should we follow him?" asked Silverclaw. He received a cuff to the ear, and then the Breton ran off after the Nord. Silverclaw groaned melodramatically and dropped into a sprint on all fours. Khajiits, while still having more cognitive prowess, still continue the habits and traditions of original cats, such as licking themselves to wash, loving fish, and stay mostly solitary unless part of a clan or tribe.

Silverclaw leaped over a shrub, his powerful digitigrade legs giving him more than enough strength to clear the foliage without touching it. He landed on the dirt and picked up the scents of his acquaintances. "They're gonna kill me…" he half laughed, half muttered as he pounded against the gravel.

There was a path made of bits of stone that lead to a sort of cave, flanked on either side by vegetation. The cave itself had some frost forming on the edges, giving the Khajiit youngster the impression of cold. His fur bristled in discomfort at the thought of going into a cold, dank cave with nothing on but rags. Sure, he had fur, but it was incredibly short and didn't have the ability to fend off colder temperatures, a side effect of his race developing in the desert-like Elsweyr.

He then saw his Breton friend disappear into its depths, following the Nord. "Great…" he muttered, skidding around a corner and grimacing at how the rocks scratched his paws.

 _Going to need to make footwraps sooner or later._

He sprinted into the cave, his tail flicking with anxiety. "I hear paw steps. Khajiit, you with us?" asked the voice that belonged to the Nord. "No, it's just some random cat that happened to wander into the same cave as you," he snorted a response, standing up on his hind legs. "Very funny," snorted the Nord, Silverclaw's eyes adjusting to the dim light.

"Come on," gestured the Nord, running into the dark depts of the caves. "I'm starting to have second thoughts about this…" I heard the Breton mutter to himself. So was I, to be honest. Khajiits and dark, dank caves don't mix well. At all. Water. "Are you going to haul ass or am I going to have to drop-kick you into the cave myself," the Nord growled, noticing that we were hesitant to follow.

"We'll totally follow you into a dark, creepy, eerie cave that probably has trolls or skeletons or bears," the Khajiit muttered sardonically under his breath, his ears twitching. "Then drop-kicking it is," he heard the Nord conclude. "Alright, alright, we're going…" resolved the Breton, walking reluctantly after the Nord.

"Fine…" said the Khajiit petulantly, sprinting after the Nord after remembering that lives are at stake. "I said haul ass, not to trudge it," grunted the Nord, referencing the Breton. "I'll just go ahead," Silverclaw finished, dropping onto all fours. Before anyone could protest, he sprung into the cave like a horse.  
 **XXX**

He could hear the horrified screams of the people merely a few feet above him. It sent shivers down his spine, hearing the shrieks of children and then a sickening _**CRUNCH**_ , implying that they had been eaten. While he was merciless at times, that didn't mean he didn't have a heart.

His culture valued life and preached that if a person means you no harm and causes no harm, there is no need to act upon any negative emotions. Basically, don't be a jerk to innocents. In wars the Khajiit had fought, they had made it a point to kill only those who would kill, and not any citizens who wished it all to be over.

That's why it was so mentally scarring to the young Khajiit apprentice. When he was an orphan, others acted with mercy and kindness, which he lived off of. The dragon, the one that Silverclaw assumed was causing all the trouble, had no such emotion.

 _All the more reason to get up there and slay its sorry ass._

He ran into a brick room. There were four beds, two on each side of the wall and all on raised platforms of stone. To the left of the farthest bed, there was a door imprinted with the word _OFFICER_ on a sign that hung from the doorknob. There were footlockers at the foot of each bed, presumably containing supplies and weapons.

He curiously peered into one, wary of what it could contain. He thankfully found three minor healing potions and 43 coin, his tail curling up in satisfaction. He checked the on next to him and found merely a diary of sorts.

 _Might make for some interesting reading later on._

He quickly sifted through the two remaining chests, finding an old iron sword and some boots that were useless to him, due to them being made for humans and not the Khajiit or Argonians. He quickly decided to check in the officer's quarters to see if he couldn't find any sort of relevant protection.

"A helmet and chest plated would be best…" he mumbled thoughtfully to himself, peering in carefully in case the inhabitant was still there.

It was a small square room, a bed off to the right-hand corner with a desk right next to the door he had opened. The bed was flanked by a chest and bookcase, most of its content being military tactics and only a few were honest-to-god stories. Though, as Silverclaw noticed, they weren't exactly the most enthralling of what he had read in his life.

He shrugged and took a few, making sure to not grab military books. He checked in the chest and found a full set of iron armor, right there for the taking. He grimaced at the thought of putting it on, knowing that the heavy metal would slow him down and force him to fight more like a brute and not naturally. In fights, he usually relied on his speed to protect him, also wearing light armor that covered up pivotal parts of his body.

He knew better though, and reluctantly put on the armor, breaking the hide boots into straps to use for his paws. All in all, the armor felt heavy and bulky, much to Silverclaw's chagrin.

 _Time to whoop some dragon ass!_

 **XXX**

The scent of charred human flesh entered Silverclaw's nostrils, causing his tail and ears to twitch uncomfortably. He gripped his iron sword in his paw tighter, looking around. People were running and screaming. The citizens were trying to evacuate, a good chunk of them trying to help children. Soldiers, archers, and mages were standing their ground and trying to slay the beast, yet to no avail.

The dragon was swooping down, taking out combatants right and left. "What will it take to put this beast down!" Silverclaw heard someone scream. "Lots more than a blaze," he said to himself, sprinting into a ruined house. His tail twitched when it got dangerously close to a flame. "Not in a mood to barbecue myself," he grunted, crouching down behind a torn wooden panel.

Suddenly, a dead body flew over the top of the damaged wood, causing Silverclaw to jump from surprise. "Son of a-" he was about to curse until the wooden panel he was hiding behind crashed down, very nearly flattening him into a pastry.

 _Goddamn this armor… so freakin' heavy._

He quickly sprinted out of the house, only for a wall of flames to blocks his path. He skidded to a stop, having to fall down on all fours to stop from being flung into the fire and being roasted alive. To his left, there stood the dragon. It snorted flames out of it's nose.

The dragon shouted something that the Khajiit didn't quite catch, but a blue aura emanated from its mouth, making the young apprentice be flung backwards several feet. It was then that the full danger of this threat sunk in.

"Divines, please let my friends save me…"


	3. Chapter III

**AN: I'm starting a new Skyrim game for the sake of this story, and I had forgotten about how fun it is. :P**

 **Oh, and I've decided to modify the Khajiit religion a bit to better suit the story. I'm going to be mashing together the Nords' beliefs with the Khajiits' for Silverclaw's system. It will be explained why later on in the story.**

 **And please review! I love reading them! (maybe a bit too much ^w^)**

 **Silverclaw**

He felt a dull pounding in his head as he cracked open his eyes. All he currently saw was the grey-orange light of the morn in the sky. His ears were ringing, as if an explosive had just gone off (technically, during the time that Skyrim is based on, gunpowder did exist and sometimes went off on accident). He made a noise that resembled a guttural meow.

He suddenly became aware of his body, and the tingling heat sensation that seemed to engulf all of his exposed fur. Instincts pushing adrenaline into his blood, causing him to fully wake up, he sprung to his feet. It was slightly difficult with the heavy iron armor on his body. Fire was all around him. Ashes littered the ground and charred corpses were strewn about, a lot in positions that caused Silverclaw's stomach to churn.

There was one who had been begging for mercy, by the position of their body. Some had somewhat minor burn injuries, others had some of their flesh seared, and the remaining percentage were the unlucky ones. They had been the ones who had been caught in the hellfire, who had taken the full brunt. The young Khajiit bared his teeth in disgust and anger.

 _What beast could do such a thing and feel no remorse?_

He felt no real sympathy for the Imperials who had died, only for the civilians. He walked forward, pausing at a small corpse that was partially molten. A _child_. It was in the fetal position, it's knees up to its chest. His nostrils flared. He was no longer merely angry – he was _livid_. He vowed then and there that he would hunt this dragon down, and slaughter it in the most creatively painful way possible.

His prior mentor would not approve of his goal, but would approve, however, of his channeling of his anger. He would sharpen it, and wield it as a weapon. As a means to end the inhumane abhorrence that was the dragon.

He put that anger away for now, as it was of no use to him now. He suddenly became aware of several burn marks on his iron armor. There was a blackened circle on his right breastplate where the metal was noticeably disfigured. There was another on his shoulder pad, along with left shin, lower back, and the helmet he had put on. "Well, I made the right decision putting this on," he grunted.

Now that he was technically out of danger, the adrenaline wore off. All the soreness and thumping came back to him in a swift blow, causing him to fall to his knees. He stayed like that for a while, controlling his breathing and using techniques taught to him by his two mentors to diminish the pain.

' _Nullifying pain is much like a battlefield,' his first mentor had said, 'You have to focus and destroy the source.'_

The Khajiit youth did his best to either push the pain away or to terminate it all together. He was partially successful, as he managed to stave off most of the burning sensation, as it mostly came from bruises and slight singes that were nothing he had to truly worry about. There was pain that came from a large cut on his bicep, but it was small enough that he had learned to ignore it. Thankfully, it was on his left, so he could fight relatively well.

He wondered where the Nord and Breton were. Their scents weren't here. Everybody who had been charred had still held on to their odor in life, albeit fainter. He could smell everyone in the small outpost, excluding his two acquaintances.

They either died somewhere out of his nose's range or escaped. The young Khajiit apprentice guessed the latter, since they didn't seem to be the type people that would die easily. Then again, this dragon could massacre anything, if it wished to do so.

He suddenly longed to be light again, so he could run freely and not feel the heavy iron weighing him down. He was a more of an 'ants-in-my-pants' sort of Khajiit, which caused him to be a highly lethal warrior if equipped with the right armor and armaments. He could usually slaughter five men in under a minute because of his made-up battle style. His peers took to calling it the 'Dance of Death' and rightfully so.

His ears swiveled to pick up footsteps from behind him. Despite the armor weighing him down, he turned around quickly to find an Imperial soldier charging at him with an axe held high. The Imperial swung the axe down to hit Silverclaw, but he only managed to hit the air, as the young Khajiit had spun out of the impact area.

"Any slower, and then the slugs would be a fair match for you!" taunted Silverclaw, unsheathing his battle-axe. "You brought the dragon here! You and the other Stormcloak traitors!" roared the soldier, swinging at Silverclaw. The grey-pelted apprentice leapt backwards, crouching on the charred earth. "First of all," grunted the apprentice, standing up, "I am no Stormcloak. Second, I've no idea what brought that accursed thing here, but I wish it had gotten you while it was at it."

This enraged the Imperial, causing him to chain multiple swings, kicks, and headbutts. All in vain, as Silverclaw easily dodged all of them. "You Khajiit scum!" roared the Imperial, starting to become exhausted from all the taunting.

"I am no scum," spat Silverclaw walking up to the soldier arrogantly. "I am, however, your killer," growled the Khajiit, angry with the pitiful man. He brought his hand to the soldier's chin and held his head up. "You were wrong to enlist… boy," hissed Silverclaw, with a cold fire burning in his eyes.

The soldier's eyes lost their spark of fury, and were starting to glaze over with fear. Silverclaw unsheathed his claws, two of them puncturing the Imperial's skull and reaching his eyes.

He gasped in horror, blood pooling in his mouth. He gurgled with bubbles of red coming out of his jaws, then fell on the ground, limp. The crimson liquid started pooling around the body. The soldier's final resting position was him gripping his neck in vain.

"Never challenge a Khajiit," Silverclaw spat on the man's corpse, kicking ashes and dirt over it.

 **0-0-0**

It was around midnight now, and Silverclaw had set up camp in one of the relatively intact houses. He despised to be around all the charred corpses of the innocent, but he had no option. He had buried all of the civilian bodies, and made a little ceremony for the ones that had been burnt alive, since dying by fire is one of the most unholy ways to die in Khajiit beliefs, and the ones who do require a ceremony to have the impurity cleansed.

All the others had died of the beast's giant teeth and collateral damage.

Silverclaw looked over the young child's corpse, seeing if there was any sort of valuables that the young human would like in the afterlife. He found none, and decided to bury the child with a wooden sword he had found. "May you defend yourself like a true warrior," breathed Silverclaw as he covered the body in ashen soot.

The high death count of the village lingered in the air, like fog after a heavy rain. Silverclaw could've sworn he still felt the presence of some of the villagers, as if they had never died but merely taken a short nap, then woke up to continue life as usual.

Silverclaw huddled close to the large fire he had created out of the broken remains of the homes. He would sleep, and then the morning… he would leave.


End file.
